


The Small Hours

by Brenda



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Gen, Insomnia, POV Character of Color, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), T'Challa & Steve Rogers Friendship, Team as Family, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm not getting him back, am I."  The words were flatly delivered – not a question so much as fatigued resignation.</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>"We will do everything we can to help him," T'Challa quietly replied, but he wouldn't lie, not about this.  Not to a fellow warrior he respected on and off the field of battle.  "The possibility does exist, however, that the triggers are permanent."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Small Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [Tower Party 'minor characters' lightning round](http://towerparty.livejournal.com/).

T'Challa stepped quietly into the dimly lit gym just as a flash of lightning illuminated the center of the room in a brilliant burst. Captain Rogers didn't acknowledge either the flash or T'Challa's presence – he just renewed his attack on the heavy punching bag up on the hook next to the boxing ring, fists flying through the air in a blur of movement almost too fast to be seen with the human eye. The sound rhythmic. Hypnotic.

The Captain was shirtless, a fine sheen of sweat covering his chest and back, and his sweatpants were plastered to his thighs. His bangs fall in lank strands along his forehead, and T'Challa could see droplets winding their way down heavily muscled shoulders and arms. He'd been here awhile, then. Hard to tell how long, given that T'Challa didn't know that much about the serum or how it worked just yet. It was far too late for either of them to be awake, yet here they both were, driven by their own personal demons and ghosts, by regret and duty and obligation. 

T'Challa was well-versed in the sort of bone-deep weariness that made it impossible to sleep. He wasn't about to begrudge the Captain his methods in how he chose to pass the time until dawn.

Instead, he stepped on the treadmill nestled against the glass wall and hit one of the highest settings. Started his own brutal pace, legs and arms both working in concert, blood pumping through his veins, as he ran mile after mile after mile. It wasn't as satisfying as racing his way along the well-worn path that looped from the steps of the palace then through the grounds and the hills beyond, but not even he was feeling restless enough to brave the storm outside. Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows in never-ending sheets of water, and every few minutes, thunder rumbled in the distance, preceded by more jagged edges of lightning. But Rogers never altered his rhythm, and after a few minutes, it was easy enough for T'Challa to tune out the sound of fists hitting canvas and concentrate on his own workout. On the rhythm of his own body, his own heartbeat, his own hard, but even, breaths.

It was an hour before T'Challa slowed to an easy jog for the last two miles, and another fifteen minutes after that when Rogers finally stepped away from the bag and started drying himself off with a towel. He didn't say a word as he dropped, cross-legged, to the floor, but the heavy set of his shoulders spoke volumes. T'Challa didn't know the other man all that well, despite the fact that he and his team had been staying in the palace for the last eight days – since their liberation from The Raft prison. But T'Challa had read enough of the Captain's exploits, both with his team in the previous century and the Avengers now, to know that he was the sort of person who imposed his will through strength and cunning and sheer stubbornness. Much like T'Challa himself. 

So he knew, better than anyone, how hard it must have been for Rogers to stand aside and watch as his friend chose a path where he could not follow.

After he'd finished wiping away his own sweat, T'Challa walked to the small refrigerator at the far side of the room and grabbed two bottles of water. Then he sat opposite Rogers on the mat, offered one to him with a wordless gesture. Rogers took it with a smile of thanks, and they both drank in silence until Rogers finally started unwrapping the tape from around his hands.

"I'm not getting him back, am I." The words were flatly delivered – not a question so much as fatigued resignation.

"We will do everything we can to help him," T'Challa quietly replied, but he wouldn't lie, not about this. Not to a fellow warrior he respected on and off the field of battle. "The possibility does exist, however, that the triggers are permanent."

Rogers took a deep, shaking breath, and hunched in on himself, shoulders collapsing as he tried to make himself smaller. But when he looked up, violent hurt and terrible fury radiated from his eyes like a living thing. Palpable, rolling through the room like the thunder outside. "Whatever you need from me..."

T'Challa nodded once, treating the offer with all the respect it was due. "In six months, we'll bring him out of cryo and see if there's any progress. After that, we shall see what other measures need to be taken, if any."

The Captain let out a small laugh, the sound rough, grating to the ears. "But fuck off in the meantime and let your scientists do their work, right?"

T'Challa offered his own rueful smile. "I did not say that."

"I know, but that's what you meant." Rogers’ throat worked when he swallowed, but he rolled his shoulders back, and seemed to find his center once again. The proud core of him that made men and women want to follow him into battle. "Buck made his choice. If I didn't respect it, I'd be no better than Zola or Karpov or Pierce."

"Yes. But it is still a hard thing, watching someone you care for struggle with something you cannot fix."

"Yeah, it sucks." Rogers swept his bangs from his forehead with a careless swipe. "I guess I know now what he must've gone through all those times I was laid up sick when we were kids."

T'Challa inclined his head towards the boxing ring. He couldn't offer much in the way of comfort – he'd never learned his Baba's gift for words – but he could give the other man an outlet. "If you were still feeling restless, perhaps a few rounds with an opponent who hits back might settle your thoughts."

Rogers gave him a considering look, one T’Challa could not quite decipher. "This offer wouldn't have anything to do with why _you're_ awake at this hour, would it?"

"I am no scientist or doctor, so I cannot help your friend heal any faster," T'Challa replied, with a small shrug. "And you are no diplomat or advisor who can offer me advice in political or legal matters, or in governing my country."

Rogers laughed again, this time amused. "Yeah, I'm the last person who should be offering advice to _anyone_ on policy or diplomacy."

T'Challa returned it, his own spirits lifting at the sight. "But, perhaps, we can offer each other a distraction, warrior to warrior."

"Is that a...uh, a euphemism?"

It wasn’t often T’Challa was caught off guard. But both the question and the Captain’s very serious and concerned expression gave him pause. He had no wish to make a guest in his home feel uncomfortable. "No, I did not mean...I only -"

Then Rogers’ lips turned up in a wide, mischievous grin. It dropped the weight of responsibility and the grief from his eyes. And, for a moment, T’Challa could see an echo of the young man he once was, before the serum and the war and the ice had hardened his core into something stronger than even vibranium. "No offense, Your Highness, but you should see the look on your face right now."

"You did that on purpose?" T’Challa asked, with a perfectly lifted eyebrow. It would not do to let this become common knowledge, but the lack of deference was...refreshing. It had been a very long time since anyone had seen him as anything other than the protector of Wakanda or the heir to the throne.

"Well, it’s not every day I can say I made a king blush, so, yeah." Rogers shrugged, unrepentant. Then he pushed himself to his feet with a graceful movement and offered a hand. "But hey, um, if you were serious, it...the sparring. Sounds fun."

T'Challa let the Captain pull him to his feet. And when he kept their hands clasped a beat longer than needed, T’Challa heard the thank you in the air as surely as if the words had been spoken aloud. He nodded in return, and they walked to the ring side by side.

Outside, the rain continued to beat down, but T'Challa could hear it slowing. Maybe the storm was finally breaking after all. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Stephrc79](stephrc79.tumblr.com) for the beta!!!!
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](brendaonao3.tumblr.com). :)


End file.
